« And some had sworn an oath that she
Should be to public justice brought;
And for the little infant's bones
With spades they would have sought.
It might not be-the-Hill of moss
Before their eyes began to stir!
And for full fifty yards around,
The grass-it shook upon the ground!
Yet all do still aver

The little Babe is buried there,
Beneath that Hill of moss so fair,

<< I cannot tell how this may be:
But plain it is, the Thorn is bound
With heavy tufts of moss, that strive
To drag it to the ground;

And this I know, full many a time,
When she was on the mountain high,
By day, and in the silent night,

When all the stars shone clear and bright,
That I have heard her cry,

'O misery! oh misery!

Oh woe is me! oh misery!'»>

HART-LEAP WELL.

Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about five miles from Richmond in Yorkshire, and near the side of the road that leads from Richmond to Askrigg. Its name is derived from a remarkable Chase, the memory of which is preserved by the monuments spoken of in the second Part of the following Poem, which monuments do now exist as I have there described them.

THE Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor
With the slow motion of a summer's cloud;
He turned aside towards a Vassal's door,
And « Bring another horse!» he cried aloud.

« Another Horse!»-That shout the Vassal heard,
And saddled his best Steed, a comely grey;
Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third
Which he had mounted on that glorious day.

Joy sparkled in the prancing Courser's eyes; The Horse and Horseman are a happy pair; But though Sir Walter like a falcon flies, There is a doleful silence in the air.

A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall,
That as they gallop'd made the echoes roar;
But Horse and Man are vanish'd one and all;
Such race, I think, was never seen before.

Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,
Calls to the few tired Dogs that yet remain:
Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind,
Follow, and up the weary mountain strain.

The Knight halloo'd, he cheer'd and chid them on
With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern;
But breath and eyesight fail; and, one by one,
The Dogs are stretch'd among the mountain fern.

Where is the throng, the tumult of the race?
The bugles that so joyfully were blown?
-This Chase it looks not like an earthly Chase;
Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone.

The poor Hart toils along the mountain side;
I will not stop to tell how far he fled,
Nor will I mention by what death he died;
But now the Knight beholds him lying dead.
Dismounting then, he leaned against a thorn;
He had no follower, Dog, nor Man, nor Boy:
He neither crack'd his whip, nor blew his horn,
But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.

Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter lean'd,
Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat:
Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yean'd;
And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet.

Upon his side the Hart was lying stretch'd:
His nostril touch'd a spring beneath a hill,
And with the last deep groan his breath had fetch'd
The waters of the spring were trembling still.

And now, too happy for repose or rest,
(Never had living man such joyful lot!)

Sir Walter walk'd all round, north, south, and west,
And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot.

And climbing up the hill-(it was at least
Nine roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found
Three several hoof-marks which the hunted Beast
Had left imprinted on the grassy ground.

Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, « Till now
Such sight was never seen by living eyes :
Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow
Down to the very fountain where he lies.

« I'll build a Pleasure-house upon this spot,
And a small Arbour, made for rural joy;
"T will be the Traveller's shed, the Pilgrim's cot,
A place of love for Damsels that are coy.

« A cunning Artist will I have to frame
A basin for that Fountain in the dell!
And they who do make mention of the same,
From this day forth, shall call it HART-LEAP WELL.

«And, gallant Stag! to make thy praises known,
Another monument shall here be raised;
Three several Pillars, each a rough-hewn Stone,
And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed.

« And, in the summer-time when days are long,

I will come hither with my Paramour;
And with the Dancers and the Minstrel's song
We will make merry in that pleasant Bower.

<< Till the foundations of the mountains fail
My Mansion with its Arbour shall endure;—
The joy of them who till the fields of Swale,
And them who dwell among the woods of Ure!»

Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead,
With breathless nostrils stretch'd above the spring.
-Soon did the Knight perform what he had said,
And far and wide the fame thereof did ring.

Ere thrice the Moon into her port had steer'd, A Cup of stone received the living Well; Three Pillars of rude stone Sir Walter rear'd, And built a House of Pleasure in the dell.

«Some say that here a murder has been done, And blood cries out for blood: but, for my part, I've guess'd, when I've been sitting in the sun, That it was all for that unhappy Hart.

What thoughts must through the Creature's brain have past!

Even from the topmost Stone, upon the Steep,
Are but three bounds-and look, Sir, at this last-
-O Master! it has been a cruel leap.

« For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race;
And in my simple mind we cannot tell
What cause the Hart might have to love this place,
And come and make his death-bed near the Well.

« Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank, Lull'd by this fountain in the summer-tide; This water was perhaps the first he drank When he had wander'd from his mother's side.

<< In April here beneath the scented thorn
He heard the birds their morning carols sing;
And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born
Not half a furlong from that self-same spring.
«Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade;
The sun on drearier Hollow never shone;
So will it be, as I have often said,

Till Trees, and Stones, and Fountain, all are gone.»>

Grey-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well;
Small difference lies between thy creed and mine:
This Beast not unobserved by nature fell;
His death was mourn'd by sympathy divine.

«The Being that is in the clouds and air,
That is in the green leaves among the groves,
Maintains a deep and reverential care
For the unoffending creatures whom he loves.
«The Pleasure-house is dust:-behind, before,
This is no common waste, no common gloom;
But Nature, in due course of time, once more
Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom.

«She leaves these objects to a slow decay,
That what we are, and have been, may be known;
But, at the coming of the milder day,
These monuments shall all be overgrown.

<< One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,
Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals,
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.»>

SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE,
UPON THE RESTORATION OF LORD CLIFFORD, THE
SHEPHERD, TO THE ESTATES AND HONOURS OF
HIS ANCESTORS.'

HIGH in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate,
And Emont's murmur mingled with the Song.-
The words of ancient time I thus translate,
A festal Strain that hath been silent long.

Henry Lord Clifford, etc. etc., who is the subject of this Poem, was the son of John Lord Clifford, who was slain at Towton Field, which John Lord Clifford, as is known to the Reader of English His

<< From Town to Town, from Tower to Tower,
The Red Rose is a gladsome Flower.

Her thirty years of Winter past,
The Red Rose is revived at last;
She lifts her head for endless spring,
For everlasting blossoming:

Both Roses flourish, Red and White.
In love and sisterly delight

The two that were at strife are blended,
And all old troubles now are ended.-
Joy! joy to both! but most to her
Who is the Flower of Lancaster!

tory, was the person who after the battle of Wakefield slew, in the pursuit, the young Earl of Rutland, son of the Duke of York, who had fallen in the battle, in part of revenge (say the Authors of the History of Cumberland and Westmorland); « for the Earl's Father had slain his. A deed which worthily blemished the author (saith Speed); but who, as he adds, « dare promise any thing temperate of himself in the beat of martial fury? chiefly, when it was resolved not to leave any branch of the York line standing; for so one maketh this Lord to speak. This, no doubt, I would observe by the bye, was an action sufficiently in the vindictive spirit of the times, and yet not altogether so bad as represented; « for the Earl was no child, as some writers would have him, but able to bear arms, being sixteen or seventeen years of age, as is evident from this (say the Memoirs of the Countess of Pembroke, who was laudably anxious to wipe away, as far as could be, this stigma from the illustrious name to which she was born), that he was the next Child to King Edward the Fourth, which his mother had by Richard Duke of York, and that King was then eighteen years of age: and for the small distance betwixt her Children, see Austin Vincent in his book of Nobility, page 622, where he writes of them all. It may further be observed, that Lord Clifford, who was then himself only twenty-five years of age, had been a leading Man and Commander, two or three years together in the army of Lancaster, before this time; and, therefore, would be less likely to think that the Earl of Rutland might be entitled to mercy from his youth.-But, independent of this act, at best a cruel and savage one, the Family of Clifford had done enough to draw upon them the vehement hatred of the House of York: so that after the Battle of Towton there was no hope for them but in flight and concealment. Henry, the subject of the Poem, was deprived of his estate and honours during the space of twenty-four years; all which time he lived as a shepherd in Yorkshire, or in Cumberland, where the estate of his Father-inlaw (Sir Lancelot Threlkeld) lay. He was restored to his estate and honours in the first year of Henry the Seventh. It is recorded that, when called to parliament, he behaved nobly and wisely; but otherwise came seldom to London or the Court; and rather delighted to live in the country, where he repaired several of his Casiles, which had gone to decay during the late troubles. Thus far is chiefly collected from Nicholson and Burn; and I can add, from my own knowledge, that there is a tradition current in the village of Threlkeld and its neighbourhood, his principal retreat, that, in the course of his shepherd-life, he had acquired great astronomical knowledge. I cannot conclude this note without adding a word upon the subject of those numerous and noble feudal Edifices, spoken of in the Poem, the ruins of some of which are, at this day, so great an ornament to that interesting country. The Cliffords had always been distinguished for an honourable pride in these Castles; and we have seen that after the wars of York and Lancaster they were rebuilt; in the civil wars of Charles the First they were again laid waste, and again restored almost to their former magnificence by the celebrated Lady Anne Clifford, Countess of Pembroke, etc. etc. Not more than twenty-five years after this was done, when the estates of Clifford had passed into the Family of Tufton, three of these Castles, namely, Brough, Brougham, and Pendragon, were demolished, and the timber and other materials sold by Thomas Earl of Thanet. We will hope that, when this order was issued, the Earl had not consulted the text of Isaiah, 58th Chapter, 12th Verse, to which the inscription placed over the gate of Pendragon Castle, by the Countess of Pembroke (I believe his Grandmother) at the time she repaired that structure, refers the reader. And they that shall be of thee shall build the old waste places; thou shalt raise up the foundations of many generations; and thou shalt be called the repairer of the breach, the restorer of paths to dwell in. The Earl of Thanet, the present possessor of the Estates, with a due respect for the me mory of his ancestors, and a proper sense of the value and beauty of these remains of antiquity, has (I am told) given orders that they shall be preserved from all depredations.

Behold her how She smiles to-day

On this great throng, this bright array !
Fair greeting doth she send to all
From every corner of the Hall;
But, chiefly, from above the Board
Where sits in state our rightful Lord,

A Clifford to his own restored!

«They came with banner, spear, and shield; And it was proved in Bosworth-field. Not long the Avenger was withstoodEarth helped him with the cry of blood: St George was for us, and the might Of blessed Angels crowned the right. Loud voice the Land has uttered forth, We loudest in the faithful North: Our Fields rejoice, our Mountains ring, Our Streams proclaim a welcoming; Our Strong-abodes and Castles see The glory of their loyalty.

« How glad is Skipton at this hour-
Though she is but a lonely Tower!
To vacancy and silence left;

Of all her guardian sons bereft-
Knight, Squire, or Yeoman, Page or Groom;
We have them at the Feast of Brough'm.
How glad Pendragon-though the sleep
Of years be on her!-She shall reap
A taste of this great pleasure, viewing
As in a dream her own renewing.
Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem
Beside her little humble Stream;
And she that keepeth watch and ward
Her statelier Eden's course to guard;
They both are happy at this hour,
Though each is but a lonely Tower:-
But here is perfect joy and pride
For one fair House by Emont's side,
This day distinguished without peer
To see her Master and to cheer;
Him, and his Lady Mother dear!

<< Oh! it was a time forlorn
When the Fatherless was born-
Give her wings that she may fly,
Or she sees her Infant die!
Swords that are with slaughter wild
Hunt the Mother and the Child.
Who will take them from the light?
-Yonder is a Man in sight-
Yonder is a House-but where?
No, they must not enter there.
To the Caves, and to the Brooks,
To the Clouds of Heaven she looks;
She is speechless, but her eyes
Pray in ghostly agonies.

Blissful Mary, Mother mild, Maid and Mother undefiled, Save a Mother and her Child!

Now Who is he that bounds with joy On Carrock's side, a Shepherd Boy?

This line is from, the battle of Bosworth Field by Sir John Beaumont (Brother to the Dramatist), whose poems are written with much spirit, elegance, and harmony; and have deservedly been reprinted lately in Chalmers's Collection of English Poets.

« Alas! when evil men are strong
No life is good, no pleasure long.

The Boy must part from Mosedale's Groves,
And leave Blencathara's rugged Coves,

And quit the Flowers that Summer brings
To Glenderamakin's lofty springs;
Must vanish, and his careless cheer
Be turned to heaviness and fear.
-Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise!
Hear it, good Man, old in days!
Thou Tree of covert and of rest
For this young Bird that is distrest;
Among thy branches safe he lay,
And he was free to sport and play,
When Falcons were abroad for prey.

« A recreant Harp, that sings of fear
And heaviness in Clifford's ear!
I said, when evil Men are strong,
No life is good, no pleasure long,
A weak and cowardly untruth!
Our Clifford was a happy Youth,
And thankful through a weary time,
That brought him up to manhood's prime.
-Again he wanders forth at will,
And tends a Flock from hill to hill:
His garb is humble; ne'er was scen
Such garb with such a noble mien ;
Among the Shepherd-grooms no Mate
Hath he, a Child of strength and state!
Yet lacks not friends for solemn glee,
And a cheerful company,

That learned of him submissive ways;
And comforted his private days.

To his side the Fallow-deer
Came, and rested without fear;
The Eagle, Lord of land and sea,
Stooped down to pay him fealty;
And both the undying Fish that swim

Through Bowscale-Tarn' did wait on him,
The pair were Servants of his eye

In their immortality;

They moved about in open sight,
To and fro, for his delight.

He knew the Rocks which Angels haunt

On the Mountains visitant;

He hath kenned them taking wing:
And the Caves where Faeries sing

It is imagined by the people of the country, that there are two immortal Fish, inhabitants of this Tarn, which lies in the mountains not far from Threlkeld.-Blencathara, mentioned before, is the old and proper name of the mountain valgarly called Saddle

back.

Ile hath entered; and been told
By Voices how Men lived of old.
Among the Heavens his eye can see
Face of thing that is to be;
And, if Men report him right,
He could whisper words of might.
-Now another day is come,
Fitter hope, and nobler doom:
He hath thrown aside his Crook,
And hath buried deep his Book;
Armour rusting in his Halls

On the blood of Clifford calls;—'

'Quell the Scot,' exclaims the Lance-
Bear me to the heart of France,

Is the longing of the Shield-
Tell thy name, thou trembling Field;
Field of death, where'er thou be,
Groan thou with our victory!
Happy day, and mighty hour,
When our Shepherd, in his power,
Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword,
To his Ancestors restored,

Like a re-appearing Star,

Like a glory from afar,

First shall head the Flock of War !»

Alas! the fervent Harper did not know
That for a tranquil Soul the Lay was framed,
Who, long compelled in humble walks to go,
Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed.

Love had he found in huts where poor Men lie;
His daily Teachers had been Woods and Rills,
The silence that is in the starry sky,
The sleep that is among the lonely hills.

In him the savage Virtue of the Race,

Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead: Nor did he change; but kept in lofty place The wisdom which adversity had bred.

Glad were the Vales, and every cottage hearth; The Shepherd Lord was honoured more and more: And, ages after he was laid in earth,

«The Good Lord Clifford» was the name he bore.

YES, it was the mountain Echo,
Solitary, clear, profound,

Answering to the shouting Cuckoo,
Giving to her sound for sound!

Unsolicited reply

To a babbling wanderer sent;
Like her ordinary cry,
Like-but oh how different!

Hears not also mortal Life?

Hear not we, unthinking Creatures!
Slaves of Folly, Love, or Strife,

Voices of two different Natures?

The martial character of the Cliffords is well known to the readers of English History; but it may not be improper here to say, by way of comment on these lines and what follows, that, besides several others who perished in the same manner, the four immediate Progenitors of the Person in whose bearing this is supposed to be spoken, all died in the Field.

Have not We too?-yes, we have Answers, and we know not whence; Echoes from beyond the grave, Recognized intelligence?

Such rebounds our inward ear Often catches from afar ;Giddy Mortals! hold them dear; For of God,-of God they are.

TO A SKY-LARK.

ETHEREAL Minstrel! Pilgrim of the sky!
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,
Those quivering wings composed, that music still!

To the last point of vision, and beyond,

Mount, daring Warbler! that love-prompted strain,
(Twixt thee and thine a never failing bond)
Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain:
Yet mightst thou seem, proud privilege! to sing
All independent of the leafy spring.

Leave to the Nightingale her shady wood;
A privacy of glorious light is thine;
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
Of harmony, with rapture more divine;
Type of the wise who soar, but never roam;
True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!

It is no Spirit who from Heaven hath flown,
And is descending on his embassy;
Nor Traveller gone from Earth the Heavens to espy!
Tis Hesperus-there he stands with glittering crown,
First admonition that the sun is down,

For yet it is broad daylight! clouds pass by;
A few are near him still-and now the sky,
Ile hath it to himself-'t is all his own.

O most ambitious Star! thy Presence brought

A startling recollection to my mind

Of the distinguished few among mankind,
Who dare to step beyond their natural race,
As thou seem'st now to do:-nor was a thought
Denied that even I might one day trace

Some ground not mine; and, strong her strength above,
My Soul, an Apparition in the place,

Tread there, with steps that no one shall reprove!

Of custom, law, and statute, took at once
The attraction of a country in Romance!
When Reason seemed the most to assert her rights,
When most intent on making of herself
A prime Enchantress-to assist the work,
Which then was going forward in her name!
Not favoured spots alone, but the whole earth,
The beauty wore of promise-that which sets
(To take an image which was felt no doubt
Among the bowers of paradise itself)
The budding rose above the rose full blown.
What Temper at the prospect did not wake
To happiness unthought of? The inert
Were roused, and lively Natures rapt away!
They who had fed their childhood upon dreams,
The playfellows of fancy, who had made
All powers of swiftness, subtilty and strength
Their ministers,-who in lordly wise had stirred
Among the grandest objects of the sense,
And dealt with whatsoever they found there
As if they had within some lurking right
To wield it ;-they, too, who of gentle mood
Had watched all gentle motions, and to these
Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers more mild,
And in the region of their peaceful selves ;-
Now was it that both found, the Meek and Lofty
Did both find helpers to their heart's desire,
And stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish,-
Were called upon to exercise their skill,
Not in Utopia,- subterraneous Fields,-
Or some secreted Island, Heaven knows where!
But in the very world, which is the world
Of all of us,—the place where in the end
We find our happiness, or not at all!

ODE.

THE PASS OF KIRKSTONE.

WITHIN the mind strong fancies work,
A deep delight the bosom thrills,
Oft as I pass along the fork

Of these fraternal hills:

Where, save the rugged road, we find
No appanage of human kind;
Nor hint of man, if stone or rock
Seem not his handy-work to mock
By something cognizably shaped ;
Mockery-or model roughly hewn,
And left as if by earthquake strewn,
Or from the Flood escaped:-
Altars for druid service fit;
(But where no fire was ever lit,
Unless the glow-worm to the skies
Thence offer nightly sacrifice;)
Wrinkled Egyptian monument;

Green moss-grown tower; or hoary tent;
Tents of a camp that never shall be raised;
On which four thousand years have gazed!

Ye plough-shares sparkling on the slopes!
Ye snow-white lambs that trip
Imprisoned 'mid the formal props
Of restless ownership!

Ye trees, that may to-morrow fall
To feed the insatiate Prodigal!